


Rhinovirus

by CornishKid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Common Cold, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, Sick John, Sick Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornishKid/pseuds/CornishKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock experiments with a few strains of the common cold for a case -- the vials break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhinovirus

The flat was deadly quiet except for the residual ringing from the clinking and breaking of glass. John and Sherlock stared at the floor where the vials had shattered and clear liquid was now seeping into the tiles.

It was John who broke the silence first.

"I'm guessing from your vacant expression that that wasn't water," he said in a low voice.

"Brilliant, your skills are improving," Sherlock muttered. He stood slowly from his perch at the kitchen table and went to fetch the dustpan from underneath the sink.

"What is it, then?" John pressed.

"Rhinovirus," Sherlock replied simply, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow as he awkwardly bent to sweep up the fragments of broken glass.

"Ah," said John casually. He took a swig of tea. "Why did you have vials of the common cold balancing on an eat-out tray?"

"There's too much clutter on the table."

Sherlock finished sweeping the mess into the dustpan. He took a considering look at the stuff, then shoved the broom and pan into the trash.

"Not what I meant, Sherlock," said John.

"You're a medical man, John," said Sherlock with a shrug. "You know very well that there are over two hundred different strains of the common cold. It's necessary for me to be familiar with them."

"And you think it's alright to do that research here rather than say, I don't know, a contained laboratory?" John found himself hovering somewhere between furious and amused.

"Molly banned me from Bart's for the next three months," said Sherlock. "Something about it being inappropriate to dismantle corpses before the paperwork's gone through."

"She might have you there," John remarked.

"It's not as if they're using their fingers anymore!"

"So you get banned from Bart's, you bring home cold samples, and then knock them over --"

"Technically  _you_ knocked them over --" Sherlock muttered.

John held up a finger to silence the other man.

"You moved the pull out tray just as I was reaching for my mug," he said. 

"And that makes it  _my_ fault --?"

"For Christ's sake --!" John squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten before breathing out a great sigh. "Okay,  _regardless_ of whose fault it was, the vials broke. We've been sitting here breathing it in for the last twenty minutes. We're both going to get sick."

"Not necessarily," Sherlock countered. "We could already be immune to those strains -- and viruses can lie dormant in a host for ages until the proper conditions are aligned --"

"We're going to get sick!" said John firmly. "So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going down to Tesco's, and I'm stocking up on vitamins, tea, and healthy foods. We're going to eat regular meals, we're going to go to bed at reasonable times, we're drinking lots of water, and we're not taking any cases for the next two weeks."

Sherlock scoffed, and returned to his microscope.

"Suit yourself," said John. "That's what  _I'm_ doing."

Sherlock had already entered his "ignore" mode. John sighed, grabbed his coat off the hook, and bounded down the stairs.

* * *

 

John was hit first.

Three days after the vials broke, despite the strict vitamin regimen he'd placed upon himself, he awoke with a scratchy throat, low fever, and a pounding headache. From off in the sitting room, he could here Sherlock chatting away animatedly on the phone. John groaned and pulled the covers tighter around himself.

"Case, John!" Sherlock barked as he re-entered their bedroom.

"I'b not going," John moaned.

"Ridiculous. Get up."

"Seriously,  Sherlock, I can't. I feel awful."

Sherlock blinked several times, his hand still on the doorknob.

"I feel perfectly fine," he announced.

"Good for you," John snapped.

"No, I mean we were exposed at the same time. I'm perfectly well, therefore you should be perfectly well. Let's go."

"Sorry, Sherlock," said John. "I'b going to have to sit this one out."

Sherlock looked torn. John sighed.

"Go," he said. "I'll be fine."

"You're... you're sure?" he said slowly.

"I'b a doctor. I can take care of byself."

John sneezed loudly. Sherlock's eyebrows raised.

"I  _would_ kiss you right now --"

John laughed.

"It's fine, go on ahead."

Sherlock sprang from the room with speed John would have never thought him capable of. As soon as John heard the click of the door downstairs, he sighed, sniffed twice, and rolled over, instantly asleep.

* * *

 

The next time he awoke, it was well into the afternoon. His sinuses had completely sealed shut, forcing him to breathe through his mouth, and the pounding in his head had increased tenfold. Still, John hauled himself out of bed; even in sickness he felt he couldn't spend an entire day lying about. Coughing, he forced himself into a sitting position -- grabbed his robe from the closet and tied it around himself -- then made his way out into the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on as he passed before continuing on to the sitting room sofa and collapsing.

"Hoo-hoo!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice called up the stairs as soon as John had hit the sofa cushions. The woman appeared a moment later with a tray in her arms.

"Alright, dear?" she asked. "Sherlock mentioned you weren't feeling well -- thought I'd bring you some lunch."

"Danks," said John gratefully as he accepted the tray, which was ladled with a steaming bowl of soup and a glass of orange juice. In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle.

"Don't you worry," Mrs. Hudson said as John began to rise. "I'll get it."

He thanked her again when she returned with a steeping mug of chamomile.

"Where did Sherlock run off to?" she asked.

"Case," John mumbled through a mouthful of broth.

"He left you behind in this state?" Mrs. Hudson tutted, incredulous.

"I don' bind," said John. "He's dot good with this sort of stubf."

"Even so," said Mrs. Hudson.

"I don' want hib seeing be like this anyway," John with a sniff. "I'b a doctor. I can take care ob byself."

"Of course you can, dear," said Mrs. Hudson fondly.

They chatted for a few more minutes as John ate, but John soon began to feel himself drifting off. Mrs. Hudson took the tray from him and ushered him into a lying position on the couch. She covered him with a blanket, and John just barely thanked her a final time before he was pulled under by drowsiness once again. 

* * *

 

John awoke for the third time to a sniffling, lanky consulting detective worming his way under the blanket beside John and burying his face in John's neck.

"What's up?" John mumbled.

Sherlock spoke into John's skin, his voice muffled.

"Say again?"

Sherlock turned his face up to look at John, his nose red and swollen and his eyes glazed over.

"Lestrade sent be hobe." He sniffed. "I sneezed all ober the ebidence."

John chuckled, which prompted Sherlock to glare at him.

"It's dot fundy," Sherlock whined. "I feel awful."

"Join the club," said John. "Come on, then," he added, pulling Sherlock closer. "Let's get some sleep."

And they did.

 

* * *

It was late in the evening when Mrs. Hudson traversed up the stairs again with more broth and tea for John. When she entered the sitting room of 221b, however, she was greeted with the sight of two men snuggled together under the blanket, both snoring loudly through their clogged noses.

"My boys," she whispered fondly. She left the tray on the coffee table and slipped back out of the room quietly.


End file.
